


Tales of Azeroth: An Orc Among The Aldor

by Zaalbeth



Series: Tales of Azeroth, Volume 1 [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft: Legion - Fandom
Genre: Burning Legion - Freeform, Demons, Gen, Grief, Legion - Freeform, Loss, Major Original Character(s), Orcs, Origin Story, Original Character-centric, Past, Priests, Warlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 16:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10312679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaalbeth/pseuds/Zaalbeth
Summary: An Aldor monastery seemed like the last place the Legion would look for a grizzled old orc warlock. But sometimes your past has a way of catching up with you, no matter where you hide.[SPOILERS: A short, powerful piece depicting the grief of a warlock determined to do whatever he must to protect his family. But doing the right thing doesn't always mean a happy ending, especially when you dare to defy the Burning Legion itself. One thing the Legion hasn't counted on: the most dangerous warlock is a warlock with nothing left to lose.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first piece in years, and my first ever fan fiction. Just sat down one day and started writing it. Only took about 90 minutes; it came very naturally, all in one go. Then posted online immediately, before I could start to doubt the impulse.

A package arrived today. When the neophyte who brought it to me arrived, it was obvious he was troubled. He could feel it, just like I could, although if he had known just what it was he was feeling, I doubt I would ever have laid eyes on it. The Aldor have been kind, but watchful. For my own good, no doubt… they don’t want me succumbing to temptation.

Hah. They have no idea. They don’t understand the difference, between me… and _them_.

But the neophyte, he felt it. It itched at him, nagging, pulling. He could barely take his eyes off it, but he brought it to me all the same. Too distracted by it, probably. He didn’t know it for what it was, but I did, before he’d even walked into my cell.

Demon.

The package stank of it. Not in the way the physical world smells; like a hot meal bubbling on the stove, sweet woodsmoke rising in the evening air, the far off scent of a quilboar roasting on a spit. No, they kept the package nice and clean. Didn’t want it getting stopped by the first druid that came within a hundred yards of it.

But it stank, in a way only those of us fortunate enough to be experienced in such things can smell. It stank of death, and demons, and the endless, fathomless nether.

Almost like home.

I didn’t need to open the package to know what it was, wrapped up in brown paper and string, like some children’s week present. As soon as I took it in my hands I knew. The weight alone told me.

I’d always feared this would happen. I did everything I could to protect them, to draw the Legion away. That was the whole reason I had ended up here, in this Light-accursed monastery Fel knows how many worlds away from the place I… once, called home. There was a chance. It might have worked.

The string unties; the paper peels away; layer over layer until the blood starts to show, seeping through the brown paper and filling my eyes and my nose and a scream is rising up inside and I need to cry out and shatter this room and turn this world to ash and instead I watch my hands tearing off the paper frantically now faster and faster until suddenly, I’m looking into her eyes.

My girl.

The only thing that ever mattered to me, and she’s here, what’s left of her, cradled in my arms as I cry and scream and roar. She’s here, or she’s there, and she’s gone. She’s gone.

 

I don’t know what the Aldor thought. Just an old warlock swept up in his incantations in some foul demon tongue, perhaps. Channelling some tortured soul, maybe. Paying penance for consorting with devils, perhaps.

 

After a while, I come back to myself. The room is cold. I’m standing, facing the wall. For a moment I almost don’t remember why I’m standing there, why the fire isn’t lit. Then I look down at my hands, and I see that they are drenched with her blood.

It comes back to me, for the hundredth time, but still as fresh and bright and dark as if it were happening right now. The night, black and cold. The village, burning. The stars, shining above. My wife, crying, pleading with me to run. The demon, towering over me, bloodlust in his eyes.

What made me turn back? What made me leave my wife and my clan on the hillside and turn back toward the village, to where the others could still be heard screaming? Why didn’t I just turn away, take her in my arms and run and never look back?

It doesn’t matter any more. But as I stared up into that demon’s eyes, as his malice bored into me and his soul opened itself to me, I knew. I knew that I wasn’t afraid to die. I knew that I wasn’t afraid.

That’s the thing, you see. The fear. That’s what gives the demons their power. And in a way, that’s what gives the ‘heroes’ of legend their power, too. What lets them do things others might think impossible. You see, they aren’t afraid. Oh, they might get scared from time to time. But that fear, they don’t let it master them. They’re the master. They’re in control.

So as that demon’s soul opened before me like some death’s head blossom, I didn’t run. I reached right in and I grabbed that power, and I _took_ it. And as I felt that pathetic minion’s life rush through my veins, as my mind expanded and quickened with a whole new world of thoughts and sensations, as I felt his will buckle and fold like tin under the iron grip of my will, I knew. I knew that I never had to be afraid again.

 

I was almost right. There was still one thing I was afraid of: one thing I feared. But that’s gone now.

And now I have nothing left to lose.

 

I take in a long, deep breath, and I look down and see her blood, still on my hands. I think it always will be. And that is why I can never stop fighting. Not until the last demon is wiped from the Nether and the dark titan himself is crushed into dust. Not until death has eaten itself will this fire go out in my soul, this fire that burns with a dark, sickly flame. And then there will be only one demon left to slay.

But until that day, I fight.

 

It didn’t take me long to gather my things. A few years spent living as a hermit and you realise you don’t need very much. My staff and my cloak; everything else that matters I carry inside. Like memories, and hatred, and an emptiness that will never cease to burn.

Just before I set out, I got a letter from an old friend. It seems these Aldor aren’t as blind as I thought. Or at least someone’s been keeping an eye on me. Seems he’s gotten wind of my change of plans, says there’s a place for me out there on the front, back on Azeroth.

It’ll be good to see Azeroth again. It will be good to see the old stars and smell the ocean wind. It will be good to see Zaal again - at least one priest that isn’t a pious bastard, or an insane Old God worshipper. And it will be good to have demons to kill.


End file.
